Page 97 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
Because Cal doesn’t just see what needs to be done—he does it. He fixes things. He picks up my tasks before I even think to ask. It’s like he’s made it his responsibility to take care of the inn.
To take care of me.
And I don’t know when that started.
But now that I’ve seen it—I can’t unsee it.
It almost brings tears to my eyes. The realization sits heavy and warm in my chest—how quietly, steadily, Cal has made himself a part of this place. A part of me. I blink fast, willing the emotion away, and escape into the pantry to sort through some tea tins that absolutely don’t need sorting.
The door creaks open behind me, and I glance up, assuming it’s Ana.
But it’s not.
It’s Cal.
I freeze like I’ve just been struck by lightning. My fingers go still around a tin of chamomile.
He stands in the doorway, arms folded, that maddeningly calm smile on his face. “Miss Hartwell,” he says, voice low and teasing. “Have you been avoiding me?”
“What? No.” The lie jumps out too quickly, and it sounds as fake as it is.
He laughs softly, walks in like he’s got every right to be here—which, annoyingly, he kind of does—and kisses my cheek. Just a brush of lips, light but warm, and my knees nearly buckle.
“What are you doing in here?” he asks, looking around like he doesn’t believe me for a second.
I grab a half-empty jar of dried lavender and hold it up like it’s evidence. “Inventory,” I say. “We were running low on… on peppermint last week, and I thought I should double check…”
He raises an eyebrow. “Mhm. Very urgent peppermint crisis.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop the smile tugging at my lips. I’m in trouble. And I know it.
Cal watches me for a beat, then says quietly, “I want us to spend some time together. Just talk. No distractions. No interruptions.”
My heart skips.Just talk.But I nod. “Okay.”
He smiles. “So when are you free for this very serious conversation?”
I pretend to think. “Tonight,” I say. “After the inn goes to sleep.”
He grins. “I’ll be there.”
Then he turns to the shelves. “How about I help you with the peppermint crisis?”
I laugh, but I don’t argue. We work side by side, our shoulders bumping sometimes, our hands brushing once—twice—and by the third time, we both stop.
The air thickens.
His fingers graze mine again, lingering. My breath catches, and for a moment, I think—I know—he wants to kiss me. And I want to let him.
But I pull back.
Too fast.
Too flustered.
“I’m not good at… whatever this is,” I whisper, eyes down, heart pounding like I’ve confessed something shameful.
He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t tease.
